Skinny Love
by JackieOh
Summary: Maureen Black wasn't anything special; just a nosy girl who held a borderline-creepy infatuation for Stiles Stilinski. If it wasn't for Maureen's impulse to stick her nose in other people's business she wouldn't have gotten involved in Beacon Hills' supernatural drama at all. That saying, "Curiosity killed the cat," couldn't be more relevant. Stiles/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Skinny Love

**Pairing:** Stiles/OC (shipname Miles)

**Full Summary:** Maureen Black wasn't anything special; just a nosy girl who held a borderline-creepy infatuation for Stiles Stilinski. If it wasn't for Maureen's impulse to stick her nose in other people's business she wouldn't have gotten involved in Beacon Hills' supernatural drama at all. That saying, "Curiosity killed the cat," couldn't be any more relevant. She's just waiting for satisfaction to bring her back.

**Author's Note:** So this is a rewrite of my deleted story _Perch_. Same main idea, same characters, only with a higher skill level of writing and a few new twists. Please be sure to follow, favorite, review, and check out my Tumblr. Thanks so much for reading, xoxo. (PS- _Skinny Love_ is a term that means "when two people love each other but are too shy to admit it". The title will make more sense as time goes on.)

**Chapter One:**

The Fine Line between _Hopeless Romantic_ and _Just Hopeless_

It started off as an innocent crush. A schoolyard obsession that often left me rosy cheeked and weak kneed. I told my self these ever-blossoming feelings for Stiles were the result of proximity and hormones. There wasn't a chance in hell we would get together; by that point he had been lusting over Lydia Martin for two years and there was no sign of him giving up anytime soon. Initially I hadn't been too gutted over it. "This isn't my first time around the rodeo," as Aunt Shirley would say. Crushes come and go; feelings are fleeting- especially the romantic ones. I would get over the sheriff's son just as quickly as I'd gotten onto him (metaphorically speaking of course- the only time I was on top of Stiles was in my dreams, but I digress) and life would resume normally.

But then a few months passed and the most miraculous thing happened… I gained hope. Lydia, in true Queen Bee fashion, fell for Beacon Hills' equivalent of a star quarterback, Jackson Whittemore. The couple was by far the most nauseating thing I'd ever seen, all hands _all of the time,_ which would throw just about anybody off. Thing is, Stiles Stilinski isn't "just about anybody". I learned that the hard way.

What the books and television shows don't tell you is that unrequited love isn't romantic. My stomach doesn't flutter with butterflies, it quakes with pterodactyls. It's not just my palms that get sweaty- it's my everywhere. I don't see Stiles through rose-tinted glasses, oh no, that boy is high saturation on a shitty point-and-shoot. He is so nauseatingly perfect I have emergency saltines on my person at all times. That's why they call it _hopeless_ romantic, because there's no chance things are going to go my way. Stiles likes Lydia, Lydia is dating Jackson, I like Stiles, and the only people who get what they want are the ones who I serve coffee to every morning.

"Welcome to _The Knothole_, what can I get you?"

Lydia smacked her lips and hummed uncertainly. Her eyes scanned the chalkboards behind me, narrowing as if she wouldn't pick the same drink she always did. During my years of observation I'd noticed while Lydia liked the idea of change she never actually did. I used to think her routine was just that, an act, but her eyes were too expressive to lie.

"_Today_, Lydia." My focus went from her to her boyfriend, and I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from scoffing. I didn't not like Jackson, but I didn't like him either. As far as I knew he was just a walking/talking stereotype wrapped in a leather coat and matching Porsche.

After sending her significant other a glare Lydia ordered her usual. "I'll have a medium caramel macchiato with a short of espresso and whip cream."

I typed the order into the vintage cash register at my right. "To stay or-?"

"To go." When Lydia turned her heel to browse the small newspaper wrack (put there almost entirely for decoration) beside the door I was not sent a thank you or smile. I didn't expect it, but for someone who often used me for the latest gossip I couldn't help but hope.

"Large coffee," Jackson demanded. "Black."

"Like your soul," I muttered under my breath, turning to the register once more.

"What?"

Plastering a fake smile on my face I asked, "Anything else?"

"A cookie," he said. "The chocolate one, or whatever." Lydia's favorite. No doubt it was an apology for his earlier snapping. "Total?"

"Ten eighty-seven," I replied while printing his receipt. After exchanging the paper for his money I turned my back to the couple and got to work.

There was something almost therapeutic about brewing coffee. Pull this lever, pump that, add two packets of _Splenda_ and onto the next one. Once you knew what you were doing it was simple. Mom often griped about my uncanny ability to make the perfect cup, but she usually silenced when I called the talent hereditary. I didn't plan on being a barista for the rest of my life, but I did take pride in it.

"Have a good day," I said after handing over Lydia and Jackson's drinks and treat.

As the pair stepped out a familiar face slipped in; an apology ready at his throat. I pursed my lips as Blaine's eyes met mine, trying to appear stern and cross.

"I know, I know," he said all Irish lilt and boyish charm. "I'm late."

"Late _again_," I stressed. "For the seventh time this month."

Blaine hopped the counter with ease and pressed a kiss to my temple. "And on your first day back too," he continued. Stepping out of his coat to reveal a wrinkled apron, the college student proposed: "Let me take you out Friday night and we'll call it even, yeah?"

I rolled my eyes at the advance. "You're working Friday night."

"Right, completely forgot." With a flirtatious wink he said, "Can't think straight around you."

"If you're done," I snipped; making his grin double in size.

"For now. Where's your mum?"

"Cigarette break," I sighed. Pulling off my apron to store it away I said, "Tell her I left for school."

"Will do," Blaine waved. "Good luck!"

"You too," I said, scooping up my purse as I made my way to the door.

"What do I need luck for?"

"Mom knows you were late!" The horrified look on his face had me laughing the entire way to Betsy, the navy Honda Civic I share with my mother.

Betsy was the definition of hand-me-down. Her paint was worn just about everywhere and chips were covered with obnoxiously colored bumper stickers that asked questions like "Are you having phone sex or do you always drive that way?" and "Where the hell is Easy Street?" The back seat was crusted with the sweet and sour sauce I spilled when I was twelve and the passenger's side reeked of coffee for similar reasons.

My mother's high school tassel hung proudly from the visor beside a pair of molting, fuzzy dice, and every turn was accentuated with the sound of rattling from the cassette tapes stored in our glove compartment. All in all Betsy wasn't the most aesthetically pleasing Civic, but she got me from one place to another. The snickers I endured in the school's parking lot may have stained my cheeks red but I liked the car's oddities regardless.

The moment I stepped out of the Honda my phone trembled violently in my coat's pocket. I fished it out immediately in the hopes it was my aunt Artie with some anecdote to take my mind off of the long school day ahead, only to frown at the realization it was an email from Vice Principal Thorne.

_Ms. Black,_

_If you would please meet me in my office before the start of homeroom as we have matters pertaining your secretary work to discuss._

_Sincerely, _

_Your Vice Principal_

_Harold P. Thorne._

The "P." undoubtedly stood for Pain In My Ass, and I wondered for the thousandth time why I traded in my study hall for student aid. Artie had been the one to suggest it after we came across my dismal Algebra grades, but with the way things were shaping up I was ready to quit- colleges be dammed. What's so bad about a D in math anyway? It's a fact you only need to know long division to succeed, and even then that's what calculators are for!

I checked the time and cursed lowly at the realization I would have to hustle unless I wanted to be late

"Maureen!" I turned instinctively at the sound of my name, and slowed my pace despite how pressed for time I was.

"Scott," I greeted, "hey."

Scott McCall's mother and mine had been friends for as long as I could remember which meant Scott and I spent a fair amount of time together. As kids we were much closer, more "friends" than "family friends", but then Middle School came and with it the pressures of being cool (which, back then, I very much _wasn't_). That changed one New Years when Scott discovered we had a mutual love for Cannabis.

He was very attractive in his own right; always donning a tan complexion, adorable smile, and puppy-dog expression. It was a wonder why I fell for Scott's best friend instead of him, but I contributed that to the moles dotting Stiles' milky complexion (I have a thing for the moles- don't judge me).

I ran a hand through my hair and searched the surrounding area for any signs of the sheriff's son, only to turn beat red at the realization I wasn't nearly as inconspicuous as I thought.

"Looking for Stiles?" Scott accompanied the question with a shit-eating grin, and I fought the urge to smack it off.

"No."

"No?"

My scowl only deepened. "_No_."

He'd been aware of my crush for some time now, not as if that was any surprise. Almost everyone who'd seen me interact with Stiles knew of my infatuation- but that didn't mean I was used to the teasing that came along with it.

"Then what are you waiting around for?"

I fixed Scott with the most hateful glare I could muster. "Good point," I said, hiking up my bag. With a harrumph I then turned my heel ignoring Scott's chuckles as I went. "Dick."

"I heard that."

"Good!"

* * *

Mrs. Lucas, the hired secretary, was at her desk when I entered the main office. Her acrylic nails clacked loudly against the out-of-date keyboard beneath them, and she smacked her Peppermint gum in the usual way. I was glad my shift was during her lunch; otherwise I would have lost my remaining sanity a long time ago.

"Is Principal Thorne-?"

"In his office," she interrupted, not bothering to look up.

I forced out a polite "thanks" and forged ahead. Judging by the clock hanging above Mrs. Lucas' perm I had made it with fifteen minutes to spare.

"Ms. Black." Vice Principal Thorne's voice was deep and foreboding, but that wasn't anything new. He stood when I entered the room and straightened out his cheap suit in an attempt to look dignified. I repressed the urge to scoff.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes," he nodded. "As I'm sure you've heard, last night a body was found in the Reserve-"

"A body?" I interrupted; my brow skyrocketing as my jaw dropped. It was the first I'd heard of it. We didn't have time for the morning news in my house, everyone was too busy fighting over the bathroom or rushing around trying to find car keys. "Who was it? Who found it? Was it murder, an accident? Did-?" Principal Thorne's glare silenced my questions, and I felt my cheeks warm with embarrassment. "Sorry. Go on, please."

"The parents share your curiosity," he said. "We're being flooded with emails regarding how this will affect after-school activities and clubs."

"And how will it?" I asked.

"Everything will continue normally," the VP replied. "What I need is for you to send out a notification saying just that. Mrs. Lucas hasn't yet grasped how to send an email." Thorne's voice was filled with dissatisfaction when he spoke of the blonde woman just outside his door, and I couldn't help but snicker at her expense. She would have been fired ages ago if it weren't for her and the principal's ongoing affair.

"Your computer, sir?"

He motioned for me to take a seat at his desk before heading towards the door. "If you'll excuse me, I need to welcome our new student to Beacon Hills High." The mention of Allison Argent, a girl whose file I may or may not have looked through while her transfer was processing, had my interest piqued. "If she needs any help I expect you'll offer it."

"Of course, sir," I said; fingers ghosting across his PC's keys with expertise.

"Write yourself a late pass when you're finished."

"Will do."

Fifteen minutes later when I stumbled into room E3 (English with Mr. Kester) I fought the urge to groan in frustration. Someone was in my seat. A pretty someone, a someone I didn't know, which meant not only was the new girl in my first period class she was also sitting next to Stiles.

As if Lydia wasn't enough competition.

"Ms. Black," Kester simpered; pausing his synopses of Kafka's _The Metamorphoses_ just to rain on my parade, "how nice of you to join us. I trust you have a note?"

I tapped my nose with a wink as if we were playing charades. Mr. Kester and I have a long-standing feud. I think fanfiction is appropriate to hand in for short story assignments, he disagrees, and it spirals from there.

After slapping an official looking paper into his hands I slunk to the back of the room to claim the only seat left. It was to the new girl's right whereas Stiles sat at her left, and as I unpacked my binder and matching pens I looked to Allison out of the corner of my eye.

She was even prettier than her school photo suggested. With her pale complexion, chocolate brown locks, noticeable dimples, and keen fashion sense it wouldn't be long until suitors were lining at her door. I would have been worried if she wasn't making goo-goo eyes at the back of Scott's head; toying delicately with her pen as if it was made of glass.

Weird.

"As I was saying," Mr. Kester droned, "we'll be starting _The Metamorphoses_..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Skinny Love

**Pairing:** Stiles/OC (Miles)

**Full Summary:** Maureen Black wasn't anything special; just a nosy girl who held a borderline-creepy infatuation for Stiles Stilinski. If it wasn't for Maureen's impulse to stick her nose in other people's business she wouldn't have gotten involved in Beacon Hills' supernatural drama at all. That saying, "Curiosity killed the cat," couldn't be any more relevant. She's just waiting for satisfaction to bring her back.

**Author's Note:** I know there has been very little mention of Stiles so far, but starting next chapter that will change. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited this story. It really inspires me and pushes me to turn out more chapters quicker. Check out my tumblr for sneak peaks of future chapters. I hope you enjoy! xoxo

**Chapter Two:**

Scott McCall Has Game?

It had taken Allison Argent all of three seconds to get lost. She was out of her seat as soon as the bell chimed, presumably to get a head start finding her next class, and I trailed after her with an expectant grin. She was easy enough to spot what with the way she continuously glanced between her highlighted map and the hall around her.

"Allison!" I called, jogging up to said brunette. "It _is_ Allison, right?"

"Yeah," she confirmed; a pretty smile on her face. "And you're…?"

"Maureen Black," I introduced with an extended hand, "your very own Welcoming Committee. I student-aid in the main office, so Vice Principal Thorne asked me to keep an eye out for you." It was a sort-of lie, but I was desperately curious to know more about the new girl. (That is to say; everything that was left out of her personal file.)

Allison shook my hand politely before she replied, "Thanks, but I think I've got it covered." Her tone wasn't rude but it wasn't necessarily welcoming either. She seemed almost defiant; as if she would rather chew off her own arm than be showed around. The pride was amusing, especially since I knew in just a few moments she would get herself incredibly lost.

"Okay," I said, trying to keep my grin at bay. "But if you need anything- directions, the latest gossip, someone to sit with at lunch- I'll be around."

"Thanks," Allison grinned, hugging her binders excitably as she did so. The warning bell rang overhead and I nearly giggled when her face paled considerably with fear.

Deciding to be nice, I peaked at her laminated schedule with a thoughtful hum. "A3, Ceramics with Mrs. Rowland," I read aloud. I pointed over my shoulder; hitchhiker's thumb poised in the direction of her next class. "Three hallways over, second room on the left."

I didn't wait for her word of thanks; I had to scale two flights of stairs and battle my way through a mostly senior populated hall to get my second block. "See you around!"

From then on, the school day passed slowly. One class bled into another; a continuous drone of what we would be learning this upcoming semester and the occasional quiz to reaffirm what we'd done in the past. The only time I found myself smiling was during short run-ins with Allison. She was almost always lost, but after Mr. Harris paired us up in Chemistry I talked her through the best routes to get to and from her classes; something she greatly appreciated.

We spent the following lunch period swapping suburban legends of her old schools and Beacon Hills High; laughing up a storm the entire time. I, like most others, was completely taken with Allison Argent. She was pretty, nice, and easy to get along with. Unfortunately the only person who disliked her just happened to be one of my closest friends.

"Would someone like to tell me how New Girl is here all of five minutes and she's already hanging out with Lydia's clique?" Rebecca 'Harley' Harlowe and I had been friends since the first grade. We bonded over our mutual dislike for subtraction and have complained together ever since.

I followed Harley's line of vision and scowled. Lydia and Jackson had cornered Allison at her locker; smiling charmingly as they spoke. Great, I would lose my new friend to their shitty cult of materialistic, spoiled teenagers. All of the work I'd put into befriending her had been for _nothing_.

"Because she's hot," Stiles explained, and I'm sure my eyes turned green with envy. "Beautiful people herd together."

"That makes no sense," Harley said. "She's been hanging out with Maureen all day." Her tone was teasing, playful, but that didn't stop me from shooting a dark glare her way.

"Explains why she didn't hang around _you_, at least," I retorted as my cheeks flushed with annoyance.

Harley liked to go out of her way to make a fool out of me in front of Stiles. She insisted it was because my short temper was endearing, but I was partial to my theory of her just being a bitch.

When she pulled a sour face I had no choice but to mirror it. I felt silly for acting so childish in front of my longtime crush, but I had no other options. The only way to deal with Harley Harlowe is verbal sparring- end of.

"So," she chirped after forfeiting our staring contest, "you coming to tryouts today?"

I looked to Stiles imploringly; trying to spot any flicker of hope. Did he want me to come today, to support him? Did my presence even matter? The questions were answered by his neutral expression, and my heart sank with disappointment. Me being there didn't make any difference- not to Stiles at least. So long as Lydia Martin was watching (even if it wasn't _him_ she was looking at) nothing else mattered.

See, this is why you shouldn't run in your crush's social circle. Not because you will be "friendzoned" (which is a load of bullshit mind you), but because you will have to see them every day love a person who isn't you- who isn't good for them like you are- and there is nothing you can do about it.

"No," I answered; facing Harley once more. "I have to cover Nina's shift. Her little brother's home with the flu and, well, you know her mom."

Harley nodded empathetically, a thoughtful frown playing at her lips. Nina Fitz's mother was Beacon Hills' resident drunk, which meant almost all parental responsibilities fell on her eldest daughter's shoulders. I didn't mind covering shifts for the most part, not doing it would only hurt my mother's business since she refused to let Nina go, but I didn't exactly like missing out on the school's infamous lacrosse tryouts.

"I'll give you a play by play," Harley promised while grabbing Stiles by the upper arm. She went to wrangle Scott as well, but the unusually quiet boy side-stepped her advance.

"I'll meet you guys there," he said. "I need to talk to Maureen."

Three sets of eyebrows rose in unison.

"About?" Stiles questioned, and my heart fluttered when his eyes flickered across my face.

Scott's expression was unreadable; a clear indication he wouldn't talk. I wasn't sure if it was because Harley was listening or if he genuinely didn't want Stiles to know. While I strongly suspected it was the former, my interest was piqued regardless.

Stiles and Harley walked away with identical looks of frustration, and it took a few moments for their loud theorizing to fade away. Once they disappeared from view I turned to Scott expectantly; left brow raised in questioning. "If you want to tease me about Stiles again you can shove it up your-"

"Did Allison mention anything about having family night this Friday?" he interrupted, catching me by surprise.

"Erm," I fumbled as my expression twisted in confusion, "_no_. Why?"

Scott's chest puffed out in the stereotypical alpha-male pose. "I'm gonna ask her out. To Lydia's party."

I snorted humorously at his response. "Not only are you _so_ not invited; Allison Argent is like, ridiculously out of your league." When Scott's face fell, I found myself backtracking in guilt. "I mean- you should still go for it. Who knows; you could end up getting First Line! Which would mean instant popularity, Lydia's undivided attention, not to mention_ Allison's-_"

"Yeah," he interrupted; words drenched in hope. "I just have to make First Line."

I patted Scott's shoulder encouragingly; not believing for a second he would actually succeed. Oh, how wrong I was…

* * *

After a painfully slow shift at my mom's café I stumbled home in search of dinner and warmth. It had started to rain hours ago, and what started off as a light shower morphed into a downpour of apocalyptic proportions. I'd become drenched in my short walks from The Knothole to Betsy and then from Betsy to the house, and I was all-but salivating at the prospect of a hot bath to wind down in.

"Honey, I'm home!" Shaking out the excess moisture of my hair, I kicked off my muddy boots and abandoned them in the foyer. Stepping over the slick mess I sniffed my way to the kitchen where the dinner table was being set. It was chimichanga night in the Black household; a tradition for all first day backs. Yum.

"Oh, thank god," my youngest aunt sighed. "Someone's been calling the house for you nonstop."

"Don't exaggerate, Artie," Mom scolded; handing me the house phone as she did so. "It was only a few times."

"Six," Artie insisted. "_Six_ times. I have a headache-"

"Well maybe if you did something besides stare at a computer screen all day!"

From the looks of it I had another ten minutes until dinner was ready, and I wasn't about to spend that time listening to my mother and aunt squabble like children. The only time they could speak civilly to each other was when my nonna was around, but she and Aunt Shirley were held up at the town's memorial hospital and wouldn't be home until much, much later.

As if on cue the ancient house line in my hand released two loud, shrill rings that brought a grimace to my aunt's pale face. I answered the phone on its third chime; heading toward my bedroom as I did so.

"Hello?" I said; falling back onto my bed and hugging a wayward stuffed animal to my chest.

"Maureen?" questioned a vaguely familiar voice from over the line.

"Depends who's asking," I replied, only half-joking.

"It's me- uhm, Allison Argent. I didn't get your cell number today and I wanted to ask you something and- oh wow, I just realized how completely psychotic this is."

I laughed, secretly happy over the fact I hadn't truly lost her to the Dark Side (i.e.; Lydia and Jackson), and said: "Not _completely_ psychotic, but maybe borderline. How did you get my house number, anyway?"

"School directory," she answered, sounding bashful.

"All that work just to talk to me?" I asked. "Must've been something important."

"What do you know about Scott McCall?"

"I know that he likes you," I smirked.

"Me too," she giggled. "He asked me to Lydia Martin's party this Friday."

I sprang straight up in my bed; propelling my teddy bear into the bookshelf adjacent to my bed. I pinned the house phone between my right shoulder and ear this way I could text Scott with fully capability. _Can't believe you actually asked her out. _

"You're kidding," I said; refocusing on my conversation with Allison. "What did you say?"

"Yes," she answered.

"You're kidding!" I repeated, louder this time. "Why would you do a stupid thing like that? Not that Scott isn't a good guy and all but I mean… Allison, you're way too pretty for him."

She laughed loudly at the compliment. "That's not true," she argued. "Scott's really cute. Besides, it's not like I could turn him down after what he did for me."

"And what did he do for you, exactly?" I asked; brow raised in questioning.

My phone buzzed in my lap, alerting me of a new message. It was from Scott. _Can't believe she actually said yes_. I snickered at his response; typing, _You and me both!_ with a cheeky emoticon before hitting SEND.

"It's a long story," Allison said. "Do you have time?"

"Scott McCall convinced you to going out with him," I deadpanned, as if that was answer enough. "I _demand_ you tell me how."

Needless to say, I ate dinner in bed that night.

* * *

"…I mean, you should have seen it Mo. Seriously. He was _incredible_. Even Lydia cheered for him. Lydia freakin' Martin! I can't believe you missed it."

It took every ounce of self-control in my body to refrain from shoving Harley into the nearest wall. All anyone could talk about was yesterday's lacrosse tryouts- her especially.

"I've slipped into a parallel universe where Scott McCall is more compelling than the discovery of a dead body in the Reserve," I griped; taking the lacrosse field's bleachers two at a time. "Kill me now." Seriously, how did one tryout outweigh potential murder? Mr. Kester may have reassured us the police had a suspect in custody but that wasn't _nearly_ enough information.

The look Harley shot me was thoroughly unimpressed. "Just wait until you see," she said. "I'm half-convinced he's taking steroids."

"No way," I said with a firm shake of my head. "Scott's morals are way too high for that."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

I shrugged noncommittally before turning at the sound of my name. "Maureen!"

At the sight of Allison Argent, I couldn't help but grin. She and Lydia had claimed prime seats- or as prime as bleachers could come anyway. The new girl waved me over excitedly, and I pretended not to hear Harley's groan of frustration.

Her dislike for Allison had increased tenfold after I let it slip she and Scott would be going to Lydia's party together. Harley may deny she has a crush on Scott, but she wasn't fooling anyone. _Especially_ not me. "Why do we have to sit with them, again?"

"Because I enjoy seeing you in pain."

After settling in between Allison and Harley, I turned to the field with pursed lips. I was born and raised in Beacon Hills meaning even I wasn't immune to the town's infatuation with lacrosse. Despite my earlier complaints I _was_ curious to see how the team was shaping up.

Coach Finstock, a Gym/Economics teacher with a serious case of crazy-eyes, gave a long winded speech that hyped up team hopefuls expertly. Players scrambled around the field like ants, and while I should have been cooing over Scott like Harley, Allison, and Lydia were my eyes focused on someone else.

One guess as to who.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Skinny Love

**Pairing:** Stiles/OC (Miles)

**Full Summary:** Maureen Black wasn't anything special; just a nosy girl who held a borderline-creepy infatuation for Stiles Stilinski. If it wasn't for Maureen's impulse to stick her nose in other people's business she wouldn't have gotten involved in Beacon Hills' supernatural drama at all. That saying, "Curiosity killed the cat," couldn't be any more relevant. She's just waiting for satisfaction to bring her back.

**Author's Note:** I have class early tomorrow morning- or later today, really- but instead of sleeping I decided to work on this chapter. I know how to prioritize. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed and please leave a review once you've finished reading. (Disclaimer: there's mention of weed in this so… yeah.)

**Chapter Three:**

The Last Laugh

I didn't know how it happened. One moment I was gazing pathetically at the back of Stiles' head and the next I had plans to go to Lydia's party tonight. Allison insisted I was needed for "moral support", and Lydia wanted to be in Allison's good graces enough that she didn't refuse. Harley turned pink with amusement as she snickered, I hated house parties with a burning passion, but when I agreed to go only under the circumstances she be my plus one it was _me_ who had the last laugh.

(Turning down a personal invite to one of Lydia Martin's house parties was social suicide- Harley had no choice but to go.)

So we went me for Allison and Harley for- or rather _because of_- me. Everything ran smoothly until Harley ditched me in favor of a junior named Clayton who was tipsy, horny, and cute enough to distract her from the touchy-feely moment Scott and Allison were sharing on the dance floor.

And thus I was left to my own devices. Which meant booze. _Obviously_. And maybe some pot if I could find it.

…

I found it.

Good ol' Greenburg. That kid may be the next Stephen Hawking but he's a serious pothead. Like _serious_, serious. _Seriously _serious. _Sirius_ _Black_, serious. Seriously.

"Watch out!"

Admits all of my _serious thinking_ it appeared I'd nearly walked right into Lydia's pool. Huh. Hands encircled my upper arm and saved me from falling, and while the grip wasn't necessarily gentle it made my entire body tingle. (Or maybe the pot was just laced. But what drug makes you tingle? I bet Aunt Shirley would know. She's tried it all.)

"Maureen, are you… high?"

"No," I said; denying it out of reflex. "I'm just hungry. Are there any french-fries here? The curly kind. I only like the curly kind."

When I turned to look at my savior I was completely unsurprised to find it was Stiles. Of course it was him. _Of course_. This is what happens when you like a cute boy: he shows up at the girl-he-is-in-love-with's party, saves you from tripping into a pool, and asks if you're high which you_ so_ are.

Goddamn, I could go for some fries right about now.

"No," Stiles said. His lips were twitching like he either really needed to pee or really needed to smile. I couldn't tell which. "Sorry, I don't think there are. But there are chips-"

"Where?" I interrupted, but he didn't have the chance to answer. I was already racing off deeper into the party toward the direction I assumed these aforementioned chips would be. I hope there are Doritos…

When Stiles found me again he looked reasonably panicked. "Maureen!" he shouted, and I liked it. The only time I had ever heard him shout my name was when I was dreaming, but the real thing was different. Better. "You can't just run off like- what is so funny?"

His question only made me laugh harder. I had found the chips he was talking about earlier, they were perched atop a new looking patio set, and they were the current source of my amusement.

"Stiles," I gasped through hysterical giggles. "Stiles, oh my god_ look_. Look! Do you see this chip?" I shoved a potato chip right into his face- so close that it cracked when pressed against his nose. "Do you see it?"

"Yes," he said clearly not understanding what was so funny.

"It's a baked potato chip," I explained. Sure enough, it was. All of the _Lays_ laid out were. "_Baked_, Stiles. Like me." I said it again, nearly screaming by this point. "Baked!"

He didn't laugh and I didn't know why. Stiles smiled though, this weird smile like he had just figured out a really hard math problem. "I've never seen you laugh," he said. Which was ridiculous.

"Yes you have," I argued, calming to the point of coherency. "I laugh all of the time."

"Well yeah," Stiles agreed, still wearing that hard-math-problem smile, "but not like that."

"I'm high," I said. "I'm a Giggly high," and I laughed right then just to prove a point.

"I can see," he nodded.

I watched completely transfixed as Stiles' eyes scanned the party surrounding us. He looked handsome in his tie, button-up, and blazer which was weird because I never thought of Stiles as 'handsome'. Always cute or sexy, but never handsome. It made me feel strange- like my feelings for him were becoming too mature and that _really_ freaked me out.

"I think the pot was laced," I blurted, and Stiles' gaze snapped to me in an instant. Everything about him changed; became sharp and worried and severe.

"What?" he asked. He put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me a half-step closer to him. "Why? Do you feel weird? Feverish? What's wrong?"

I kept my mouth shut because, I mean, I didn't reallythink the pot was laced I was just freaked out because he looked handsome and who even looks _handsome_ anymore?

"Maureen," Stiles said, and his eyes flickered to something just over my shoulder that increased his panic tenfold. "Oh man _not now_!"

I was seriously worried he was going to have an anxiety attack, which would be pretty okay I guess because I had a brown paper bag stuffed in my jacket's pocket. Just as I was about to reach in and get it Stiles was talking again; focused solely on me this time.

"Just- just wait here, okay? Right here, next to chips."

"The _baked_ chips," I joked, because he looked like he could use a laugh.

"The bakes chips," he confirmed without even cracking a smile. "I will be right back, okay? Just stay here."

I said, "Okay," and Stiles shot off like a rocket. I watched as he weaved between inebriated shimmying teens before I couldn't see him anymore, and then shrugged and followed after him because… well because I'm _high_ and you can't hold people to their promises when they're high.

After elbowing my way to the Martin's front yard I felt marginally more sober than I had pre-elbowing, which meant I was now brimming with curiosity. Where had Stiles run off to? Was he chasing after someone, like I was him? My questions only seemed to grow when, instead of finding Stiles, I found Allison shouting after what appeared to be Melissa McCall's sedan. _Weird_.

"Uhm," I said while approaching the emotionally compromised teenager cautiously. "You… okay?"

Allison rounded on me with desperate ferocity. "He bolted!" she exclaimed, and I jumped at her sudden loudness. "We were dancing and then he just- Scott just…!"

"Bolted?" I supplied.

"Yes!" she shrilled. "Completely ditched me- _stranded_ me!"

"Stranded us," I corrected. Scott had been my ride home too.

I watched as Allison paced the length of two cars, came back, and did it again. Ah, so she was an angry walker. Made sense.

"Excuse me," an unctuous voice called, "it's Allison right? And Maureen?" He asked like he already knew the answer.

I angled my head towards the newcomer, and couldn't help but appreciate his good looks. Tall, dark of hair and light of eyes, wore a smile that could charm the pants off of just about anybody. He was exactly the type of man my mother goes for only twenty years younger. I didn't like him out of principle.

"Nope," I said; popping the P. "Got the wrong girls, sorry."

He smiled, laughed a little, and said, "Yeah, Scott told me you were high."

Allison gave me a look of pure surprise as my face twisted into a deep scowl. "Aren't you a little too old to be hanging around high school parties?"

"Yes," the man agreed. "Which is why I'm not here to _hang around_. Scott called and asked if I would drive you two home."

* * *

Today was undoubtedly the day for out-of-character agreements. First Allison convinced me to go to Lydia's party, then she coerced me into letting 'Derek' drive us home. Y'know what? Maybe it wasn't me making bad decisions; maybe it was me choosing my friends unwisely.

I didn't mean that- Allison is sweet and Derek didn't murder us or anything- but Mom could smell the pot on me as soon as I walked in and _boy oh boy_ did I get it. My Betsy privileges were taken away meaning I would be walking to and from school every day, and my phone would be locked away for the rest of the weekend. I still had my laptop and books of course, but I really wasn't looking forward to the whole _walking_ thing.

I was ripped from my pouting by the sound of ringing. It was our front door, nothing else _chime_d that way, which wouldn't have been concerning if it wasn't a quarter past midnight.

I decided to stay in my room. Not because I was afraid but because my mother and aunts were all in the den and, if whoever was at the door was some sort of murderer, they would be scared off by the Infamous Black Sisters.

It was only when three knocks rattled my bedroom door that I uncurled from the comfortable position I sat atop my windowsill on. "Yes?" I called, my voice uncomfortably scratchy and strained from tonight's chill. Wearing a skirt had been another poor decision of mine.

"Someone's here to see you," my aunt Shirley singsonged cheerily while opening the door without asking permission. When it revealed Stiles I nearly had an honest-to-god aneurism. "You two have five minutes," she continued, completely oblivious to my level of _freaking out_. Aunt Shirley turned to Stiles with a smirk, "She's in trouble for being a teenager."

"For smoking pot!" my mother yelled from somewhere downstairs.

"Same thing!"

If there was such thing as an opportune moment for the ground to open up and swallow a person whole, it was now.

My aunt leaned in and said with a wink, "I'll let you close the door because nothing good ever happens in five minutes and, if it does, you deserve the privacy."

"Out!" I yelped; crossing the room and shoving her into the hall by the face. "Out, out, _out_!"

Her cackles made my skin crawl. "Geez Mo, I didn't expect you to be so _eager_."

The innuendo in her tone was clear, and my face warmed uncomfortably. I slammed the door shut behind me and leant on it with a mortified huff. "God," I said apologetically, barely able to meet Stiles' eyes, "I'm sorry about her. It must be the full moon or something."

And it was a lie, because my aunt is always like that, but that's not something Stiles needed to know.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?"

The sight of Stiles in my bedroom, surrounded by mismatching furniture and an overflowing bookshelf and stupid trinkets I had collected over the years, had me so jaded it took a moment for me to answer.

"It was taken away," I said. "Mom's a big D.A.R.E. advocate and, well, I wasn't exactly sober when I got home. Hence the whole _grounded_ thing."

There was something about Stiles' expression that made me want to apologize. His usually rosy cheeks were blotchy and his chest heaved with each breath he took, as if he'd recently been running. The dress shirt he was wearing looked wrinkled, his tie loosened, and the jacket he wore earlier was missing altogether.

"Are you… okay?" I asked, unsure if I was overstepping some boundary by doing so. This was, essentially, our first one-on-one conversation and not only was it taking place in my bedroom (an uncomfortably intimate venue) but Stiles looked wound up.

"Who-who drove you home?" he stuttered, dodging my question without tact.

My face immediately screwed up in dissatisfaction. Whether it was from the mention of Derek or his deflection I wasn't sure. "Scott's friend," I answered. "Derek."

Stiles seemed to have choked on his own spit. He took a step towards me unexpectedly and tripped up over the stack of books at the foot of my bed. "Derek?" he yelped. "Derek Hale?" He seemed suddenly unhinged; panicked even.

"I don't know his last name," I said. "But he was tall and his hair was black and he was like, irritatingly smug."

I cursed myself internally for the '_like_' that had slipped in. It makes people look stupid and, as a guy who fancied girls with a GPA above 149, _stupid_ was not something I wanted to look.

"That's Derek Hale." Stiles said this like it was supposed to mean something to me. While the surname sounded vaguely familiar I didn't really care much. I didn't like him either way.

"Okay."

"No," Stiles argued with a flourish of his hands. "Derek Hale is_ not_ Scott's friend. He-he's this creep that's been following us around! You should stay _away_ from Derek Hale."

I didn't need to be told twice.

"Okay," I repeated, feeling sort of dizzy.

Two sharp knocks sounded at my door, and I opened it without complaint. My mother stood on the other side; looking incredibly stern and cross. "Time's up," she announced.

"Okay." It was the third time I'd said it and less than a minute, but I felt as if it was my only safe word. There was something about the way Stiles spoke about Derek, about this guy who claimed to be Scott's friend but so clearly _wasn't_, that made me feel vulnerable.

I knew it was stupid to feel that way, I had been home for twenty minutes now, but my mind was doing that awful thing where it runs through horrible scenarios and plays them on the back of my eyelids as if they're movies.

As soon as he left I swiped the house phone from our kitchen table under the pretense of cookies and gave Allison a call just to make sure she had gotten home alright. Mom caught me and tacked on another day to my sentence, but I figured it was worth it in the end.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Skinny Love

**Full Summary:** Maureen Black had never been anything special; just a teenage girl with a borderline creepy obsession with Stiles Stilinski. If it wasn't for her need to stick her nose in other people's business Maureen wouldn't have gotten involved in Beacon Hills' supernatural drama at all. That saying, "Curiosity killed the cat" couldn't be any more relevant. She was just waiting for satisfaction to bring her back.

**Author's Note: **Just want to throw it out there that this story won't have a _real _love triangle (that isn't canon at least). There will be things in this chapter that could suggest Maureen leaning toward another guy but it's nothing serious. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed! Reviews are really what keep me going to_ please_ leave one once you've finished reading.

**Chapter Four:**

All Aboard!

I am always the most thankful for being an only child in the morning. As a teenage girl who shares a (as in_ singular_) bathroom with four other women I've learned to take precautions. I shower at night, do my hair before I go to sleep and lay out my clothes before going to bed. I could not imagine having another obstacle/person to go around before school and I did not _want_ to imagine. It's just unfortunate that, despite these preventative measures, I always find myself rushing to open my mother's café on time.

This lateness doubled whenever I was grounded. And while it wasn't often I found myself in trouble it happened frequently enough to have a fail-safe route from The Knothole to school that would give me enough time to go to my locker before Homeroom. It just so happens this fail-safe route leads me past the Stilinski household. But, more importantly, past Mrs. Reynolds' maniac German Shepherd Duke.

I wish I could describe the noise Duke makes as barking but that was much too tame. He did not _bark_, or _ruff_, or _arf,_ or whatever it is kid songs claim dogs say. He _shouted_. I didn't even think it was possible for a dog to shout before I met Duke, but he proved me wrong time and time again.

I don't want to say that I hate Duke- he's a dog for crying out loud- but he terrifies me to the point of downright phobia. And I know that's ridiculous (I _know_) but I would rather face the Zombie Apocalypse than Duke. Unfortunately my preference of zombies to German Shepherds does not matter to the universe as I found myself walking past Mrs. Reynolds' front yard this Monday morning.

Unsurprisingly, when Duke bounded out of his too small doggy door just to yell at me, I jumped.

"Goddamn shitting, stupid, _shouting_ dog!" I tripped up over my frayed nerves, nearly face planting into the sidewalk. Duke responded verbally. I straightened out my wrinkled shirt and turned challengingly toward the dog. "Oh, you want to go huh? It's too bad you don't have thumbs to unlatch that gate, Duke! Want to know why you don't have thumbs? Because you're a _dog_! But you know who does have thumbs, Duke? Me! See? Y'see them?" I waved my fingers about mockingly and was just about to continue my assault when a familiar voice sounded.

"Uh, Maureen?"

I swear to you I almost died of mortification right then and there. I watched as Duke, pleased with his handiwork, flounced back up his owner's stairs and through the too small doggy door. _It is wrong to hate a dog. It is wrong to hate a dog. It is __**wrong**__ to hate a dog_.

"Stiles," I greeted, turning to face him as I plastered a fake smile across my lips. "Hey."

He appeared to be suppressing laughter. "Hey."

"Aren't you late for uh- for practice?" I was grasping at straws, desperately trying to take the spotlight off of my crazy. "Y'know _lacrosse_… that sport you play."

"That sport I _don't_ play," Stiles corrected humorously from the inside of his idle Jeep. "I'm sure the bench is fine without me."

"Fine," I agreed with a thoughtful nod, "but probably not warm."

Stiles grasped theatrically at his chest. "You wound me."

It felt strange be talking to Stiles again, to be joking around, but it was also very exhilarating. Y'know, in a _Holy Shit I've Been Crushing On This Boy For Two Years and He Has Caught Me In Awkward Positions Twice Now and Oh My God What If He Thinks I'm an Idiot? _sort of way.

"So what are you going here?" Stiles asked. "Besides bullying Mrs. Reynolds' dog, I mean."

I met his cheeky smile with a halfhearted glare. "I was stripped of all car privileges until further notice." I inched closer to the Jeep presumptuously, though it looked like I was simply getting closer to continue the conversation. We both knew Stiles would offer to drive me to school. He was too nice not to. "And I was not _bullying_ Duke."

He shot me a sarcastic look that said _yeah right_ before reaching over the passenger's side seat and opening the door for me. "You should probably just get in before I instate a No-Dog-Bullies-Allowed-In-Roscoe policy."

"Roscoe?" I questioned curiously while struggling to hop up onto the passenger's seat. Stiles grabbed my hand (which I'm sure had grown sweaty by this point- _real attractive_) and helped haul me in. "Thanks."

"No problem. And yeah, Roscoe."

I eyed him for a moment, my heart fluttering and mind in DO NOT PANIC! mode, before nodding thoughtfully. "I like it. My car's named Betsy." _Boscoe_. It sort of fit together. God, could I be anymore pathetic? I'm shipping our cars for Christ's sake. "It was a birthday present, right?"

Stiles' grin nearly blinded me. "Yeah."

"Cool." For a moment we sat in silence; me toying with the fraying strings of my jacket while Stiles concentrated on the road. The lack of conversation made me feel edgy and so I said the first thing that came to mind. "So what's up with Derek Hale?"

Stiles literally swerved at the question. _Literally_. My temple collided painfully with Roscoe's window and I let out a low hiss of pain, clutching at my head as I did so.

"Sorry, sorry!" he apologized. "Are you okay? Oh my god, I-"

"It's fine," I interrupted through gritted teeth. "Jeez, he's got to be bad news to get _that_ sort of reaction."

"Just stay away from Derek, okay? He's just- he's a creep."

I eyed Stiles critically, taking note of the rigidness of his shoulders and furrow of his brow. "So you've said." He was growing increasingly uncomfortable with this topic of conversation, and my head was pounding too much for me to push it. "I'm just glad I made it home from that party after Scott ditched."

Stiles winced despite the fact my accusatory tone wasn't directed his way. "He feels really bad about it. _Really_ bad." I couldn't help but admire Stiles' unflinching loyalty for Scott. Their bond ran deeper than best friendship. They were brothers.

"I know," I said. "He told me. Repeatedly. Texted, called, emailed… I mean who even _emails_ anymore?" Stiles snorted appreciatively at the dig and my chest swelled with pride. "Just don't tell Scott I've forgiven him. I want to make him sweat. Although I'm sure he's more concerned about Allison than me."

Stiles rolled his eyes at the mention of Allison. "Ugh, they're nauseating."

"_Were_ nauseating," I corrected, only half meaning it. I had to keep up the appearance Allison was finished with Scott- or so she instructed. The new girl wanted him to grovel and I was eager to give a helping hand. "Lydia's already setting Allison up with, what's his name? Matt? He's on the lacrosse team."

It was only then did I realize I'd made the mistake of mentioning Lydia Martin in front of Stiles. His entire being lit up at the sound of her name, and I physically felt my heart plummet to my stomach.

"Lydia, huh?"

The rest of our ride was went by miserably- in my case, that is. Once Stiles Stilinski's train of thought hopped onto Lydia Express there was no turning back.

* * *

Harley was absolutely beside herself when she found out Stiles had given me a lift to school. No matter how much I tried to dissuade her by regaling how Stiles literally spent _eight whole minutes_ talking about Lydia, Harley's cheery attitude remained. It would have been sweet if it wasn't so damn annoying. Not to mention obvious. Like, _hello Harley Stiles is literally right there he can see your suggestive looks!_

Infuriating friends aside, the school day passed with little incident. Principal Thorne gave me no trouble during Student Aid as he was too busy arguing with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. It was unfortunate for him of course, but it wasn't like I could do anything about it. After Economics with Coach Finstock I raced from the classroom and to the exit; knowing I could be late for work if I didn't rush. While I knew Harley would have driven me if I asked I couldn't handle her badgering me about Stiles before a long work shift. I would surely snap.

"You're late!"

The Knothole's bell chimed daintily above head as I met Blaine's cheeky smile with a dark look. "Har-har."

"Christina called out," he said while drying the novelty coffee mug in his hands. I forced a groan as his grin widened. "Which means we're working together today."

"Goodie," I cheered dryly while exchanging my coat for a hanging apron. It was a deep, navy blue with a white stencil of a tree on its breast pocket. Blaine had designed/printed them last September but I was still transfixed by their simple yet beautiful design.

There was no good explanation as to why I didn't like Blaine when he, so obviously, likes me. He is an art student at the college my grandmother teaches at two towns over (Nonna had been the one to recommend he work here actually), foreign/Irish, charming, and undeniably sexy. His notebooks are filled with sketches of me, some posed and others not, and they're done so beautifully it's only _slightly_ creepy. And I knew from experience just how good of a kisser he is (we were both tipsy and at Nina's cousin's New Year's Party). Almost everyone in my family figured we would end up together, married, and happy- except Artie that is who inexplicably hates him- and there are times when I think so too. Really the only thing standing in our way were my feelings for Stiles. Feelings which, unless acted on, would fade.

"Nice day at school?" That's another thing. Blaine asks me things because he genuinely want to know. It's not an obligatory I-Want-To-Get-In-Your-Pants-Therefore-I-Will-Try-To-Come-Across-As-Interested-In-Your-Life. It's more like, I-Care-About-What-Happens-During-Our-Time-Apart. He gives me toothaches sometimes, and despite the fact I know I don't deserve this sort of attention I can't help but like it.

"Nice enough," I shrugged in response; struggling to knot the ties of my apron.

Blaine came to my assistance without me having to ask, and that was essentially the straw that broke the camel's back. Maybe it was the residual hurt from Stiles gabbing on and on about Lydia, maybe it was me spiting Harley, maybe it was just me being a hormonal impulsive teenager. No matter the reason I faced Blaine with a severe look of determination and opened my mouth to speak.

"Take me to the lacrosse game Saturday." It wasn't a question nor a request. He would do it because he was planning on asking me anyway.

Blaine leaned against the counter and pushed his curly, floppy fringe up in an attempt to look suave. "Of course."

I rolled my eyes at the smugness in his tone and turned my back to him; choosing to wipe down the counter top instead. The afterschool rush would be in soon and we needed to prepare.

* * *

I was in the middle of searching for _Derek Hale_ on facebook when the call came in. I didn't know how Lydia had gotten my Skype or why she wanted it in the first place, but after denying her chat requests twice I accepted immediately when it was Allison's.

"You denied my call!" Lydia huffed once my face appeared on screen.

"Only twice," I said over Allison's snickers. Squinting at my laptop wearily I asked, "Lydia _what_ is on your face?"

"Teabags." She said this as if I was an idiot for now knowing.

"You have _teabags_ tapped to your _face_?"

Allison sent me a private message that read PLAY NICE. I snorted humorously and typed an emoticon back.

Lydia bristled, clearly thinking I was mocking her. "They get rid of dark circles. God, Maureen don't you know _anything_?" She smacked her lips in true Lydia Martin fashion and continued, "Well I don't expect anything different from a girl who wears so much plaid."

"What's wrong with plaid?" My tone was obviously defensive. I _like _plaid.

"Nothing," the strawberry blonde answered. "I mean, if you're a lumberjack."

Just as I opened my mouth to retort Allison cut in with a short, "Guys!"

"Right," Lydia agreed quickly. "So we called to ask you about Scott McCall."

This piqued my interest. "I've known him since well, since forever. Our moms are best friends and-"

"That's touching, really," Lydia interrupted. "But I'm thinking more along the lines of _What Steroids Is He On?_"

I choked on the water I'd been sipping. "Why does everyone think he does drugs?" I cried in disbelief. "Scott's a- he's way too _goody-goody_ to do anything."

"There," said Allison with a sharp decisive nod. "See? I told you, Lyd. Thanks Maureen-"

"Nu-uh. We are _so _not done here. Maureen, if McCall isn't doping, then why does he have a serious case of roid-rage?"

"Roid-rage," I echoed in disbelief.

"There was an accident during practice today," Allison explained tiredly. She tugged at the Pippy Longstocking braids at either side of her face with a huff.

"Accident?" Lydia scoffed. "_Please_. He attacked Jackson deliberately-!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said. "Backtrack for me here. _What_ happened?"

Apparently, Scott had tackled Jackson so ferociously Lydia's boyfriend was temporarily hospitalized. While Jackson wasn't fatally wounded his shoulder had been dislocated to the point of significant muscle damage. He wouldn't be suing due to the fact it happened during a scrimmage but _still_. These newfound signs of aggression didn't sound very Scott-like.

"But Jackson will be okay, right?" I asked once each girl finished recapping today's events.

"He'll be playing in Saturday's game," Lydia said, and while it didn't exactly answer my question I wouldn't push. I didn't care much anyway. Jackson was an alright-ish guy but I wouldn't be sending Get Well flowers.

I yawned loudly, shocked that it was already well past midnight. "So has this changed your mind about Scott?" The question was obviously directed at Allison.

"I don't know," she answered uncertainly. "I mean lacrosse _is_ a contact sport. It's not exactly surprising Jackson got hurt. Unfortunate, but not surprising."

"But you're still making him grovel right?" I smirked.

Allison mirrored the mischievous expression while Lydia proclaimed, "She better."


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Skinny Love

**Full Summary:** Maureen Black had never been anything special; just a teenage girl with a borderline creepy obsession with Stiles Stilinski. If it wasn't for her need to stick her nose in other people's business Maureen wouldn't have gotten involved in Beacon Hills' supernatural drama at all. That saying, "Curiosity killed the cat" couldn't be any more relevant. She was just waiting for satisfaction to bring her back.

**Author's Note: **Excuse my language, but this chapter was a _bitch_ to write. It's partly because of my dismal reviews and partly because the holiday season/my birthday (December twelfth hollaaa) gets me weirdly depressed. Whatever 5ever. Thanks to everyone who actually _did_ review, and to all of the people who have followed/favorited.

**Chapter Five**

The school week passed with a blink of an eye, and before I knew it Saturday had arrived. While Blaine was absolutely ecstatic I felt weary. I didn't know _what_ I was thinking when I asked him out. In the moment, I'd felt almost defiant. Harley _had_ been incredibly annoying about Stiles that day. Mostly I just remember being so touched that Blaine was interested in me and my day that I'd figured… "screw it". And I know how unfair this is for him, I _know_, but every time I thought about calling things off I would see that stupid, dazed expression on Stiles' face when I mentioned Lydia and I would just- _arg_! Y'know? Not that, that's any excuse. But I wasn't technically using Blaine… right?

"…Maureen? HELLO? Are you even listening to me?" Purple fingernails suddenly appeared under my nose, and I jumped when Harley snapped loudly. "Now is _so_ not the time to space out!"

I slapped my best friend's hands away and met her stern gaze with a scowl. "What?" I asked, wiping down The Knothole's countertop with much more force than necessary.

"I_ said_," Harley smirked, "there's been an arrest!"

"Arrest?" I echoed before turning my head in the kitchen's direction. "Hey Nina!" I called. "I'm taking my fifteen!"

She gave me the A-Okay sign of approval. I hopped over the barrier without a thought, before Harley and I claimed the secluded loveseat in the storefront window. We were buzzing with excited energy despite the fact our topic of conversation was undeniably morbid.

"They found that girl's killer?" I asked.

Harley's curls bounced with each nod of her head. "It sure looks like it," she said. After taking a sip of her cocoa Harls continued, "And you'll never guess who!"

"Who?"

"Derek_ friggin' _Hale! That total dreamboat who used to babysit me, remember? Like _oh my god_! A serial killer used to watch me. Isn't that crazy? I could've been killed!"

I could physically feel my heart drop into my stomach. Unbeknownst to Harley, she wasn't the only one who had, had a run in with Derek. And mine was _much_ more recent. Stiles had called Derek a 'creep', and at the time I knew he was hiding something but- but there was no way he knew about _this_. Stiles would have given me a sterner warning- would have tipped off the cops.

Right?

"I can't even believe it-!"

"Did they identify the girl?" I interrupted with a frown.

"I don't know," Harley said. "They haven't announced anything. But get this: the missing half of her body was found… on the Hale's old property!"

"The Hales," I repeated. The surname was so familiar yet… "Oh!" I suddenly exclaimed, making Harley jump. "The _Hales_! I knew that name sounded familiar. Artie used to date Derek's older sister, Laura. But then-"

"They moved away because of that house fire!" Harley all-but shouted, earning a dirty look from the woman browsing our small collection of books. "Holy crap, you don't think _Derek_ was the one who set that fire. Do you?"

I chewed the corner of my lips anxiously while playing with a stray lock of my hair. I felt sick to my stomach- lightheaded even.

"Almost his entire family died in that fire," I said, my tone slightly breathless. "There- there's no way he did it."

"I don't know," Harley replied, her skepticism clear. "I mean, he's a killer. Killers… _kill_."

I swallowed the growing lump in my throat and got to my feet, swaying slightly once upright. "I've got to get back to work," I told her. "Have to take inventory."

"Sure thing," Harls said while getting to her feet. Nudging her elbow with mine she asked, "See you at the game tonight?"

"Mhm," I hummed, deciding it was best if I didn't mention I would be taking Blaine along with me. Boy-talk seemed insignificant now. One week ago I had been in a car with a murderer. Worse, Allison had been _alone_ in a car with a murderer.

"Hey Maureen, you okay? You look a little… green."

I walked through the kitchens briskly and sent a fleeting smile Nina's way. "Fine," I lied with a faltering smile. "I'm heading to the storage room to finish inventory."

"Okay," she said. "Just come up front once you're done."

* * *

When it came to getting ready for my and Blaine's date I pulled out all of the stops. Mostly it was to distract myself from thoughts of Derek Hale. I knew if I got to researching him now, a _real_ look instead of my failed Facebook attempts, then I would hole myself up in my bedroom for the rest of the night. And so I went to the attic and fished out the dress I wore last year for my grandmother's best friend's annual Christmas party, put on makeup for the first time in eons, and color coordinated my outerwear with my Everything Else. Even Lydia would be impressed.

A wolf whistle interrupted my preening. I could see my grandmother in the mirror's reflection, and I rolled my eyes with an embarrassed flush.

"Who are you and what have you done to my granddaughter?" she asked, all smiles.

"Turned her into dust and duplicated her form," I replied with a shrug of nonchalance.

"Cute," Nona said.

I turned to her while straightening out the skirt of my dress. "I try."

"Artemis is very disappointed in you, you know," Nona grinned as I followed her out of my bedroom and into the hall. "She's on the porch torturing Blaine now."

"Poor guy," I laughed

If this had been three months ago, the following silence wouldn't have been awkward. There had been a time in my life where Nona was my best friend, my confidant even. A time where I would have told her about Derek Hale and Stiles and how much I dreaded going on my date. But, as they say, that was then and this is now.

And in _now_ my Nona wasn't my Nona anymore. In _now_ she sometimes forgot who I was- forgot my name, forgot her _own_ name. She didn't remember reading me _The Body Snatchers_. And it didn't matter that it wasn't her fault. I mean, it _mattered_ but that didn't change anything. Because even if you don't volunteer for Alzheimer's you still forget. And she forgets a lot.

After slipping into my coat I stepped out onto the porch to see Blaine shrinking under Aunt Artie's glare. "What's going on here?" I asked with a smile; puffing up my hair as I went.

"Just kidding around," Artie said. "_Right_, B?"

"Sure thing," Blaine confirmed while grabbing for my hand. "You ready to go?"

On the walk to Blaine's car I said, "You shouldn't let her intimidate you like that. Really. Stick up for yourself! It might even earn her respect."

"Ah, but pretending to be intimidated by her colorful threats is much more fun." His cheeky smile had me laughing, but I rolled my eyes when he ran ahead to open my door.

"And they say chivalry is dead."

Blaine guffawed loudly and said, "There's no winning with you, is there?"

"No," I grinned. "No, there isn't."

…

As far as dates go, I guess this was alright. Blaine was funny, charming, cute- all of the things a girl looks for in a guy- but there was one glaringly obvious hurdle I just couldn't jump over. He wasn't Stiles. And I just couldn't stop thinking about how Not Stiles he was. How there were no hyperactive quirks or Star Wars references. Blaine was smooth in a way that seemed almost fake.

But that's the thing! He wasn't faking. Blaine's interest in me was genuine, and it made me feel so _bad_ that I demanded I pay for my own dinner. (Hell, I would have treated him if he'd let me.) And I guess my feelings we obvious because when we made our way from the parking lot to the filling bleachers he called me out on them.

"You're miserable," he said.

"No," I denied hastily. Blaine's eyes were soulful and grim. Defeated, almost. "I'm having a nice time, really."

"I just want to know- and I'm not mad, honest- I want to know why you asked me to the game. For curiosity's sake."

"Blaine-"

"No. Tell me, Maureen. It's the least you could do." He meant to guilt me, I knew the moment he spoke it was intentional, but I couldn't bring myself to be angry with him. If anything Blaine should be the one mad at me.

"I wanted to try," I said. "Wanted to see if… if maybe I could-"

"Force yourself to love me back?"

His response knocked the wind out of me.

"Love?" I asked. "_Love_?"

"Maureen, you made it!" Harley appeared out of nowhere. Taking my arm, her emerald colored eyes inspected Blaine curiously. "Oh," she said. "You didn't tell me you two would be coming _together_." The innuendo in her tone was clear.

"We didn't," Blaine replied with a charming grin. "I'm meeting my friend Jerry in the stands. He's over there, see?"

I squinted toward the stands and was unsurprised to find Blaine's roommate/best friend parked on the end of the home team's stands. Jerry came to all of the Cyclones' lacrosse games. I suspected it was to relive his Glory Days.

"I'll see you at work," Blaine promised. He pressed a kiss to my forehead in the usual way, and my stomach twisted with guilt. "Later ladies."

I watched him walk away with a frown. Blaine ran a hand through his hair as a sigh billowed around him. He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of Pixie Stix- his "vice" as my Aunt Shirley liked to call it.

"Poor guy," Harley said. "Totally in love with you, and you're totally in love with Stiles."

"Love's a bitch," I replied.

"Heard that."

The sound of Coach Finstock's whistle filled the air. "Ladies," he bellowed; setting his crazy eyes on us, "off of the field!"

"Sir yes sir!" Harley mocked. "C'mon Mo, Lydia and Little Miss Sunshine saved us seats up top. Forewarning: Mr. Argent is there and he's a _total_ babe!"

…

After saying our Hello-and-How-Are-Yous I nestled between Harley and Mr. Argent who, indeed, _was_ a total babe. Players swarmed the field like ants before settling into their positions. I was surprised that Jackson was starting being as he'd been hurt only five days ago, but when I asked Lydia about it she simply grinned with pride.

Scott was starting too of course, having made first line. I could see Melissa sitting just one row down and over, and I wanted to go say "hi" but the sight of Sheriff Stilinski scared me off. There was nothing particularly frightening about Stiles' father other than the fact he's well, _Stiles'_ father. That alone was enough to keep me away.

"Hey," I began, "do you think he'll get any play time?"

"Stiles?" Harley snorted. "Please. _I_'m more likely to get called in than he is."

I frowned at the back of Stiles' head, knowing Harley's words were true. Despite Stiles' marginally-above-average lacrosse skills, Coach Finstock would probably put Greenburg in before him. On the upside, Stiles was still a part of the team. Which meant _I_ had the pleasure of seeing him rock the Cyclones' signature maroon jersey. Hmm… it contrasted with his pale complexion so _attractively_-

"Busted," Harley snickered, and my heart leapt into my throat.

It appeared Stiles' had felt my stare since he twisted around and looked dead at me.

"Shit." I waved stupidly, accidentally hitting myself in eye as I did so, before aiming a kick at Harley's shin. This only encouraged her cackling of course, but at least I tried.

Stiles, bless him, sent me a wave in return.

"Is that your boyfriend?" I nearly jumped out of my skin when Mr. Argent's voice sounded.

"No," I denied quickly. "No way. That's just Stiles. He's my uh- my friend." I felt like a bumbling idiot, I know I sure as hell _sounded_ like one, but Allison's father only grinned.

"Ah," he said. "I see."

Before I could dispute whatever thoughts were going through Mr. Argent's head, the referee blew his whistle and the game began.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Skinny Love

**Full Summary:** Maureen Black had never been anything special; just a teenage girl with a borderline creepy obsession with Stiles Stilinski. If it wasn't for her need to stick her nose in other people's business Maureen wouldn't have gotten involved in Beacon Hills' supernatural drama at all. That saying, "Curiosity killed the cat" couldn't be any more relevant. She was just waiting for satisfaction to bring her back.

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry this was such a long wait but I've been having some moderate health issues and was in the hospital and became even sicker and then it was Christmas and Teen Wolf was taken off of Netflix and blah blah blah. Nevertheless I hope you enjoy and please be sure to review!

**Chapter Six**

_Foul Lines_

I cannot begin to describe the lacrosse game that followed. Partly because I am in no way a sports commentator, but mostly because there are no words that describe how Scott McCall plays lacrosse. And I know it isn't like he's the only person on the team but it certainly seemed that way. At first there had been a few mishaps- tackles, fouls, the one time someone from the other team deliberately _tossed Scott the ball_- but the Beacon Hills Cyclones came out victorious in the end. Which is really all that mattered.

When the referee's whistle sounded, everyone was on their feet either cheering or booing. Finstock was cackling maniacally in the opposing coach's face, which was turning purple with fury and mortification. Lydia abandoned us in favor of running into Jackson's arms or, more accurately, his lips. From the pinched expression on Harley's face I gathered we reached the same conclusion in regards to Allison's disappearance. And while I felt sad for Harl I couldn't help but grin over the fact Scott was getting some action.

"Do you girls need a ride home?"

While Harley's cheeks turned pink at Mr. Argent's question, my grin only widened. "No sir," I said. "But thank you for the offer. Lee, let's go?"

"If you see Allison tell her I'll be waiting by the car."

After Harley and I agreed to his request we descended the clearing bleachers with our arms linked. "It's so unfair," she whined. "Cute boyfriend, cute dad… some girls just have all the luck."

"You're being ridiculous," I said after dodging a toddler's flailing elbow. He was crying violently, and the little boy's mother looked to be at her wit's end. I nearly laughed. "I mean, Scott's an alright guy but you've seen him _pick his nose_."

"Once," Harley defended. "And that was in the first grade. It doesn't count."

I rolled my eyes at her antics. "Whatever. I _highly_ doubt the Argents have some incestuous father/daughter thing going on, anyway."

"You don't know that. I mean, Allison could have a total Electra Complex."

I couldn't help but be impressed with her mythology reference despite its Level of Ridiculousness. When I said so she replied:

"I skimmed through that Greek Mythology book you gave me for Christmas. Which I still think is a crappy gift, by the way. I buy you a cute scarf and you buy me a book? Crap_py_."

This was one of the many things Harley and I disagreed on. It wasn't so much that I picked books over typical feminine things, it's just that I have an insatiable love for lore. I had grown up around stories ranging from Mount Olympus to Druids what with Nonna being the (now former) head of Duke University's Mythology Department.

What started off as bedtime stories branched out to attending lectures, running online forums, and emailing people who claimed to have firsthand experience with the supernatural. Nonna's best friend Millie had a lot to do with that, of course. I'd attended her Annual Halloween Banquet for the past six years where mythology professors and enthusiasts gathered from all over the world.

Millie lives in a supposedly haunted house and, while I'm unsure of the validity of that claim, it sure as hell _looks_ spooky. Millie's Manor (as almost everyone calls it) is the perfect setting for ghost stories. The tales I'd heard of the past few years were so heartfelt, so tangible, it's almost a shame they're not real.

When Harley acted as my plus one last year, she'd been less than impressed.

"I gave you the gift of knowledge," I told Harley upon leaving my reflections. She pulled a face while I scanned the emptying parking lot. "Hey, where's your car?"

Harley drives her older sister Kerrie's red Kia Rio when she's away at college. It always smells vaguely of Kerrie's boyfriend Franco's cologne, which is at best tolerable and at worst god-awful. It was too cold to drive with the windows down so I would spend the entire ten minute drive breathing through my mouth. But it was preferable than asking Blaine for a ride home.

"Brenden Doyle drove me," Harley said. Brenden Doyle is Hollywood handsome, second to only Jackson Whittemore, as well as a tangentially good lacrosse player. He had been chasing after Harley since they worked together as lifeguards over the summer. Apparently the chase was over. "Why, did you need a ride home?"

I had two options. Well three if you counted Blaine, but I didn't. I could either tell Harley the truth about tonight- how I had the worst date of all dates and was now without a ride- or I could lie.

"No. Mom let me have Betsy for the night. I just thought I was walking you to your car." It was unsurprising that I picked the latter.

"Well Brenden's car is right here," Harley said. True enough, we'd stopped in front of his all white BMW. "He's taking me to whatever victory party is going on tonight. You want to follow?"

I pulled a face, shook my head. "Pass. But have a nice time and try not to get infected with something."

"Charming."

"Hey, _you_'re the one who suggested incest not five minutes ago."

Harley rolled her eyes but the smile playing at the edge of her lips contradicted the action. "It wasn't a suggestion."

"Whatever," I said. "But have fun with Brenden, okay? Take your mind off Scott. He's gross and picks his nose."

The look on Harley's face was soft. A rare sight to see. She smiled strangely and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. "Thanks, Mo."

…

I was halfway home when I felt someone's presence. Initially I told myself this was the byproduct of an overactive imagination. No one's _watching_ you, Maureen. Get a grip. Derek Hale is in custody and, as far are you're concerned, there are no other homicidal maniacs in Beacon Hills.

But the feeling of being watched was persistent.

Obviously my only option was to call Scott. _Obviously_.

"Maureen?" He didn't sound surprised to hear from me. A little tired maybe, but not surprised.

"I don't want to alarm you," I said, "but I'm ninety-nine point nine percent sure someone is stalking me."

I was sure he was running a hand down his face. Scott always did that when I complained about imaginary stalkers which, being as I walked a fair amount, happened often. (Scott McCall, despite being a world renowned nose picker, was my surrogate older brother. Which meant I called him for business such as large bugs and fictional stalking.)

"No one is stalking you, Maureen."

"Don't make it like I'm being crazy. I'm not being crazy. I'm being a reasonably attractive sixteen year old female walking home alone next to the woods-"

"_What_ are you doing walking home alone?"

I rolled my eyes at the interruption. "Being stalked. Keep up, Scotty."

"Where are you _exactly_, Maureen?"

My heart, which was pounding by this point, doubled in speed. "Why do you sound so concerned about this? You're supposed to say, 'Quit being ridiculous. You're not even reasonably attractive. No one is going to kidnap you and sell you to a sex trafficking ring.' And then I'll feel better."

"Maureen," Scott said this in a tone more serious than I had ever heard, "a girl's body was found in the woods two weeks ago. Why the hell did you think it was a good idea to walk home all alone?"

"Because Derek's been arrested," I replied. "And tonight I went on a date with Blaine-"

"You went on a date with Blaine?"

I rolled my eyes at the distaste in his tone. "Yes Scott, I went on a date with Blaine. And it was horrible. So when he took me to the lacrosse game- which you killed by the way- I decided to walk home instead of asking him for a ride. Which is why I am currently walking about being not-stalked."

"_You_ went on a _date_ with _Blaine_?"

I tripped onto my block with a scowl on my face. "Yes," I said through gritted teeth. "I went on a date with Blaine."

"You need to give me a second to process this."

I would have laughed if he wasn't such an ass. "Oh my god!" I exclaimed. "You're the literally worst. I don't even know why I called you."

"Don't hang up!"

"I'm hanging up." And I did.

I was much too annoyed to notice the way luminescent, crimson eyes traced my every move from the reserve only a few feet away.

* * *

The next few days passed uneventfully. The only thing remotely exciting was Harley's interruption during my Tuesday morning shift. Apparently Derek Hale was in fact _not_ a murderous psychopath. Evidence being: the police found canine hairs on the body in the woods, which meant whatever killed the girl wasn't even _human_.

Aunt Shirley claimed this was an "omen" despite the fact wolves are often identified with protection. She told me nothing good ever came of wolves and that our family was good evidence of that. I didn't know what she meant exactly, but there are things you just don't question Aunt Shirley about. Her hoodoo is one of them.

Blaine had been acting surprisingly… chipper. Almost blasé about last weekend's disaster of a date. He still kissed my forehead every morning, still flirted when he could, still sketched pictures of me during his break. I almost questioned him a few times but would chicken out at the last second. As the days wore on it became easy to fall back into our routine, so I left well-enough alone.

Vice Principal Thorne was a pain in my ass and constantly hounding me to do menial things. It was a way to get his frustration out, I think. His wife had sent the divorce papers- or so I heard from Mrs. Lucas. While she was shit at her day job her gossip was always reliable.

But the quaint day-to-day lives of the Beacon Hills' inhabitants wouldn't last long. Come Wednesday there was another gruesome headline plastered across our local news. Another body was found. Only this time it was (supposedly) whole and left on school grounds.

It goes without saying Vice Principal Thorne called me in early that morning.

…

To say I was in over my head would be an understatement. Mrs. Lucas had left for a "bathroom break" fifteen minutes ago and I doubted she would be returning anytime soon. I could see the back of her recently-bleached head through the office's amongst the teenagers/reporters crowding around the mangled school bus. I was irritated of course, but I couldn't say I blamed her. I would be out there too if VP Thorne wouldn't have my ass for it. (Damn her and her tenure.)

And so I emailed and answered phones, and emailed and answered phones, and emailed and answered phone until my fingers hurt from typing and mouth turned dry.

Every call waiting line was filled and waiting to be transferred to Administration- who backed up with calls themselves- yet the calls continued to come. Worried parents, grandparents, and guardians flooded every outlet available. And me, being only one person, was ridiculously overwhelmed. Not to mention Homeroom would be starting soon. Principal Thorne was outside talking to the police or press or _whatever_ which meant I would be without a late pass. Even under the circumstances I doubted my English teacher being understanding what with him being a douchenozzle and all.

"MAUREEN!"

I released a small yelp and raised my keyboard like one would a baseball bat. At the sight of Stiles in the doorway my panic lulled, but not by much. "Stiles," I said. "Can't talk right now. Kind of in the middle of-"

"Have you seen Allison?"

He crossed the room and my brow crinkled at the question. "Why-?"

"Maureen," Stiles interrupted while he put all of his weight on one leg and bounced the other. "_Have_ you _seen_ Allison?"

The testiness of his voice made me bristle. My fuse was already short from this long morning, and I was in no mood to be shit on by Stiles Stilinski. "_No_ I have _not_," I mocked.

He looked positively affronted by my attitude. "Well, have you _heard_ from her?"

"I've been too busy facing the Shit Storm that is parental concern to-"

The phone suddenly rang, and I answered in an instant. My tone went from acidic to sugar-sweet in the drop of a hat.

"Beacon Hills High main office. This is Maureen speaking, how can I direct your call?"

My jaw dropped when Stiles pulled the phone base's plug; disconnecting whoever was on the other line as well as the eight people who were on hold. At first I was too shocked to say anything. I just sat there, mouth hanging open, as my widened eyes stared up at his flushed face.

But then my fury kicked in, and I found myself reaching for the tape holder at the corner of Mrs. Lucas' desk without really thinking about it.

"_Ouch_!" Stiles yelled. Rubbing at his arm her began to ask: "What the hell was that-?"

"You stupid idiot!" I exclaimed, slamming my hands down on the desk table. "Principal Thorne is going to _kill_ me! No, worse- he's not going to write my recommendation letter! Now I'm never going to get into Duke, and then I'll never get to be the head of the Mythology Department and I'll never find a cute T.A. who'll think my red hair is _exotic_!"

I grabbed Mrs. Lucas' legal pad then, and aimed it at Stiles' left shoulder. He was so surprised he didn't even play hurt. Instead Stiles' gaping mouth simply twitched into a-

"Don't laugh!" I whined. "It isn't _funny_. Ugh! Get out of my office! And turn around you idiot- Scott and Allison are right _friggin'_ behind you!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Skinny Love

**Full Summary:** Maureen Black had never been anything special; just a teenage girl with a borderline creepy obsession with Stiles Stilinski. If it wasn't for her need to stick her nose in other people's business Maureen wouldn't have gotten involved in Beacon Hills' supernatural drama at all. That saying, "Curiosity killed the cat" couldn't be any more relevant. She was just waiting for satisfaction to bring her back.

**Author's Note: **So I'm trying out this new thing where I switch point of few from first (Maureen, always Maureen) to third because it will give me lengthier chapters and, as the great Greet philosopher Miley Cyrus said: "It's my mouth I can say what I want." Tell me how you like the change? Thanks!

**Chapter Seven**

_Ibuprofen and Pizza Are a Girl's Best Friend_

When Principal Thorne finally released me from my post it was lunch time, and despite the fact I had been excused from my morning classes I was in a sour mood. Since Nina had to cover my morning shift I would have to cover _her_ morning shift on Sunday. And do you know what that means? That means I'm now the lucky girl who gets to train our new employee, Hannah. Training newbies sucks. _Sucks_.

"What are you so grumpy about?"

I looked up from the pizza I was ravishing to the vaguely disgusted face of Allison Argent. I grunted noncommittally and went back to gnawing on my pepperoni slice, knowing it was rude but not having it in me to care.

Harley saw fit to step it. "Maureen's a bitch when she's hungry. A gross, table-mannerless, bitch. Oh _gross_, Reeny! Chew with your mouth _closed_!"

I snapped my mouth shut with a victorious smirk. After swallowing the copious amount of food in my mouth I said: "That's what you get for calling me a bitch."

"Bitchiness? _Bitchiness_ is what I get for calling you a bitch? You're only proving my point."

Allison's eyes bounced between us as if it were a tennis match. She held an expression of vague amazement.

"You're the bitch, bitch." I said this because my mind was too backlogged with parental complaints to come up with an intelligent comeback.

"Oh my _god_!" Lydia suddenly groaned from her seat at Jackson Whittemore's right. "If I have to hear the two of you _bitches_ go back and forth for the rest of lunch I'll-!"

"Lydia," I interrupted plainly, "would you lower your voice? I'm trying to have a conversation, here."

Stiles promptly began choking on his _own_ slice of pizza as everyone else in earshot gave an assortment of guffaws of chuckles. Harley discreetly slipped her hand under the table and I gave it a victorious slap. Maybe hunger _does_ make me a bitch.

"Whatever," the redhead growled before taking a violent stab at her salad.

Maureen Black- 1 Lydia Martin- 0

For a moment the table ate in silence. Then our lacrosse team's goalie, Danny, asked: "So Maureen, you student aide in the main office right?"

I nearly groaned when I realized where this seemingly innocent line of question was going. "I don't know anything about the attack," I told him and anyone who was listening.

"Oh c'mon," Allison egged, "you have to know _something_."

"Just that whatever attacked the guy was probably a cougar."

"_I_ heard it was a mountain lion," Jackson announced importantly.

Lydia rolled her eyes and corrected: "A cougar _is_ a mountain lion." At Jackson's glower the queen b immediately dumbed herself down. "Isn't it?"

I pulled a face at her act and saw that Stiles was doing the same- although for different reasons I'm sure.

"Who cares?" Jackson questioned rhetorically. "The guy was probably some homeless tweaker who was gonna die anyway."

"Charming," Harley drawled at my right. He shot her an unsympathetic shrug in return.

It was then that Stiles spoke up. "Actually they just found out who he is," he said while frowning at his phone.

I reached across the table impatiently and grabbed a hold of Stiles' wrist. Angling his phone in my direction I leant forward and stared down at its screen. Displayed was a live newsfeed and reporting was a pretty anchorwoman. After clicking the speakers a few notches higher they crackled:

"…The sheriff's department won't speculate on the details of the accident but it was confirmed victim, Garrison Meyers, did survive the attack. Meyers was taken to a local hospital where he remains in critical condition…"

"Hey, I know this guy!" Scott exclaimed as his eyes doubled in size.

"You do?" Allison frowned as she placed one of her hands atop his, obviously trying to be a comfort.

My longtime friend nodded. "Back when I lived with my dad I used to take the bus. He was the driver."

The food in my stomach suddenly felt uncomfortably heavy. I released my hold on Stiles and leant back, shrinking into myself as I felt a headache coming on. The death of a school district employee meant arranging some sort of vigil- something Principal Thorne would have me work. I couldn't even bring myself to feel terribly selfish. I had gone a whole week last spring with only five hours of sleep because of a music teacher's death, and she'd only died of a heart attack. I couldn't imagine what the board would want to put on for a guy who was _murdered_ while still on school grounds.

"Can we please talk about something more fun?" Lydia posed this as more of a demand than suggestion. "Like… oh! Where are we going tomorrow night?" She looked to Allison who shot her a befuddled look in response. "You said you and Scott were hanging out tomorrow, right?"

Allison took a small sip of water, obviously trying to stall as she avoided Scott's probing gaze, and said: "We're still thinking of what we were gonna do."

"Well I'm not sitting at home again watching lacrosse videos," Lydia replied. "So if the four of us are hanging out then we are doing something fun. Or six, if Maureen wanted to come with her boyfriend?"

Stiles, for the second time this lunch period, choked. Although this time it was much more violent. "Boyfriend?" he spluttered between wheezes. "Since when did you- _boyfriend_? You have a boyfriend, huh? What- what's he like?"

I was far too insulted by Stiles' incredulous tone to immediately answer. Then: "He's big and strong and older and has like, a _huge_ di-"

"Oh my god, Maureen!" Allison cut in with pink cheeks.

"Yeah," Jackson chimed with a disgusted look on his face. "I'm trying to eat here."

I rolled my eyes and said, "Relax. I was _going_ to say 'dimple'." Harley snickered at their nonplused glares as I turned back to Lydia. Deciding the jig was up I told her, "Lyd, I don't have a boyfriend."

She, for some reason, looked put out by this. "But what about that cute guy from the coffee shop?"

"_Blaine_?" Scott sneered of Harley's delighted giggles.

"Oh no," Harley denied with a shake of her head, "they're not dating. He's just in love with her. It's kind of pathetic actually."

"It's _not_ pathetic," I corrected as my chest swelled with guilt over last Friday. "It's just… persistent."

"Whatever," Lydia dismissed, obviously put out from not being the table's center of attention. "Then it'll just be the four of us." And thus, the topic of conversation was redirected Scott and Allison's way.

Harley and I shared a look of mutual amusement before turning to the new girl and our old friend with poorly concealed interest. A double-date with Lydia and Jackson was as good as a death sentence. Out of the two of them, Garrison Meyers got off much better than Scott McCall.

"So we're hanging out," he began while eyeing his sort-of girlfriend uncertainly. "Like the four of us? Us and them?"

Allison nodded sheepishly. "Yeah I guess. It sounds like… fun."

"You know what else sounds fun?" Jackson rhetorically questioned. "Stabbing myself in the face with this fork." He displayed said utensil as if to demonstrate his point.

I had to physically repress my snort when I noticed Harley's crossed and hopeful fingers on her lap. Under her breath she muttered, "Please, please, _please_."

After shooting me and my best friend a disgruntled look Lydia turned complacently to her boyfriend. "How about bowling?" she suggested with a coddling smile. "You love to bowl!"

"Yeah," Jackson scoffed. "With _actual_ competition."

This was, apparently, the perfect thing to say. Allison leant toward him with a challenging expression on her face. "How do you know we're not actual competition?" she asked before turning to Latino at her right. "You can bowl, can't you?"

I thought of Harley's ninth birthday party then, and how Scott had managed to get seven gutter balls even though our lane had bumpers. I teased him mercilessly for the following weeks until Scott's revenge presented itself. Apparently his skill (or lack thereof) was outmatched by only one thing: my dismal stamina.

I'm pretty sure Matt Daehler still hasn't forgiven me for losing our gym team's game of Capture The Rubber Chicken, which is essentially Capture The Flag only with- y'know- a rubber chicken. I was picked last for teams for the remainder of intermediate school. They were dark times.

"Sort of," Scott replied after a moment of hesitance.

Jackson raised an eyebrow. Leaning forward the lacrosse captain asked, "Is if 'sort of' or 'yes'?"

Scott straightened out his posture suddenly and puffed out his chest in pride. "Yes," he said. "In fact, I'm an _excellent_ bowler!"

* * *

Sometimes Stiles couldn't believe the things that came out of his best friend's mouth. Scott McCall wasn't exactly known for his wit but that didn't mean he was _stupid_. Which is why it was beyond Stiles how Scott could screw up his second date with Allison so exponentially.

"Dude, you're a terrible bowler!" Stiles admonished as he and Scott walked toward the parking lot from their last class of the day.

"I know," the lycaon bemoaned. "I'm such an idiot!"

"It was like watching a car wreck," said Stiles. "First it became a group thing and then that _phrase_ comes out of nowhere."

"Hanging out," Scott frowned.

"You don't hang out with hot girls, okay? It's like death. Why do you think we don't hang out with Harley and Maureen?" Stiles wasn't blind to the fact that their closest friends were hot. It was a thing he'd noticed, y'know, objectively. "What is even _up_ with Maureen today? First she throws office supplies at me for no reason and now all of a sudden some creepy guy she works with is in love with her? Did you know about this?"

Scott was too wrapped up in his own dilemma to answer Stiles' inquiry. "How is this even happening? I either killed the guy or I didn't-!"

"What kind of name is _Blaine_ anyway?" Stiles sneered.

"-I make First Line and the team captain wants to destroy me. And now," Scott complained while checking his phone, "I'm going to be late for work!"

The lycaon took off toward the exit, leaving Stiles in his wake. "Wait Scott, you didn't- who is this guy? You didn't answer my question!"

But Scott continued his speedy getaway without even bothering to throw a wave over his shoulder. Dick. Stiles huffed irritably, adjusted the strap of his backpack, and turned toward the student parking lot where his Jeep awaited only to come face to face with Harley.

"Uh," he began uncertainly, "why are you looking at me like that?"

The girl's smile widened at his question. "Like what?" she asked, all faux innocence. "Like I just heard you question Scott about Maureen Black's romantic endeavors?"

Stiles rolled his eyes at the insinuation in Harley's tone. Breezing past her he said: "It's not like that."

"Oh-ho-ho Stilinski, do not bullshit me. It is _so_ like that," she said while trailing after him.

Harley had been trying to force Maureen onto Stiles for the past two years with little success. It wasn't that he thought Maureen was ugly (it's already been established she's pretty) it's just Maureen's kind of… _weird_.

Like how she always wears her hair in Chinese buns. What's up with that? Plus, while her temper doesn't exactly have a "short fuse" when Maureen Black gets irritated you better run for cover. He'd already developed a bruise from this morning when she threw that stapler at him. Okay, so _maybe_ he shouldn't have ended all of her calls while she was working. But it was a matter of life and death!

Anyway, the point is Stiles liking Maureen? _Never_ gonna happen. Him wanting to know more about Blaine (whoever the creep turns out to be) isn't _jealousy_ it's… friendly concern. Friendly concern that is completely and one-hundred percent platonic. So Harley can shut up with her cat-that-ate-the-canary grin and hints.

But, well, when has Harley _ever_ been known to shut up?

"The path to acceptance runs through denial. And you my friend? Y_ou_ are stranded in an Egyptian waterway without a life jacket or paddles. You're gonna drown, Stilinski. _Drown_." It was only when the words had left her mouth did Harley realize how unpleasant the analogy seemed. Being quick to change the subject she said: "Anyway, how about we stop by The Knothole and scope out your competition?"

"He's not my competition," Stiles replied before giving a thoughtful frown. He and Scott wouldn't be meeting up with Derek Hale for another two hours at _least_. "Yeah, okay. I could go for some coffee."

He wasn't going to check out who this Blaine guy is, okay? He _wasn't_.

Harley turned to her car with a victorious smirk. She is so getting the Best Friend of the Year award.


End file.
